If I stop, it's just pain...

It is warm, he is alive, he is calm and sad, he hardly knows why. In this existence so even, so tranquil, and so gentle as he has here, he falls into melancholies of honey and roses. It seems to him that all those friends he loves forget him.

The unreality of the past weeks lifted like a fog, but its residue remained. All of the past is like that, but most especially the parts that are out of the ordinary. I step back further, until I feel cold tiles against my back. It is then I get the glimmer that I associate with memory. As my mind tries to settle on it, it flutters away, like ashes caught in a breeze, and I realize that in my life there is a then, a before, though before what I cannot say, and there is a now, and there is nothing between the two but a long, silent emptiness that has led me here, to me and him, in this home.